


Hunters of invisible game

by ARMEN15



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Last of Us
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Badass!Arya, Crossover, Enemies to Friends, Escape, F/M, Faceless Arya Stark, First Time, Grief/Mourning, May/December Relationship, Minor Character Death, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pandemics, Plague, Rare Pairings, Twincest, a wolf and a lion, friends by necessity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23343034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARMEN15/pseuds/ARMEN15
Summary: Rumors about the Last of us tv adaptation and about the actors (Maisie Williams and Nikolaj Coster  Waldau) who played in GOT and that could play Ellie and Joel, plus the dramatic pandemic situation we are all living into  made me imagine  this work...I'm starting slow and more than a crossover between the two worlds this is a GOT AU with references of a pandemic alternate universe involving Jaime and Arya.Please remember to stay safe and follow your local rules.If you're so kind, a review Is very appreciated.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Bran Stark, Arya Stark & Gendry Waters, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Ellie & Joel (The Last of Us), Hot Pie & Arya Stark, Jaime Lannister/Arya Stark, Myrcella Baratheon & Jaime Lannister, Nymeria & Arya Stark
Comments: 27
Kudos: 84





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> AU timeline: Jaime on the boat back from Dorne and Arya reunited after Braavos with her old friends.  
> The chapter titles are quotes from the song Hunter of invisible game.

Immobile as a marble statue beside her, holding a cold hand, lifeless.  
Her features are still delicate, he has cleaned the blood on her face, the crimson rivulets staining her rounded chin, he has closed her eyes for the last time.  
He was the first thing her eyes saw, when Cersei held the tiny newborn in her arms after she was cleaned from the birth blood and the baby opened her pale green eyes on his face and captured his heart from the beginning.  
Jaime has been a silent father for all her life, until the very last end.  
Her body is cold, rigid, like his right hand, a bloodless lifeless creation he is forced to wear.  
He has to cover her body with the cloak she eventually deserves – the one that had to be hers by birth right, the one of her true father - to hide her from disrespectful eyes that would see how pale she is now, how her golden mane is loosing its colour.  
There is a strange silence, outside, the boat is quiet, he’s spent the night with his daughter’s corpse, unaware of the route.  
They are sailing home, to her mother, to his sister, for the second time he has to offer Cersei a dead child. It is the revenge of the gods against them? 

Lommy has been the first to feel strange, three days after they left the anonymous village near Storm’s end.  
He retches the rabbit they ate around the fire and his face becomes red. Fever, Hot Pie declares. At first Arya mocks Hot Pie, telling him he is not a master, but Lommy don’t get better.  
Gentry wants to find a inn, a maester, because Lommy is unable to walk and they have to drag him over their only mule. But the young group of travellers has no money, so the only way to get some is stealing it.  
Arya is in charge of the task: small, a fast mouse, a thin cat, she can easily pass unnoticed along the market stalls and grab a purse or a golden ring.  
But Lommy is worsening fast, on his chest pustules appear, they have no time to find more than a few coins and Gendry kneels in front of the maester – a thin old man with a face full of pox scars - promising to work for him in exchange for treating Lommy.  
Herbs, a strange dark tea, ointments to ease the need to scratch the big pimples and draw blood and some yellow liquid. No results.  
The master asks Gendry to keep always on the fireplace pots with hot and steaming water, he forces them to daily baths and Arya hates to wash herself in front of her friends, especially when Gendry’s eyes linger over her frame.  
Lommy is delirious when Hot Pie starts feeling sick, too, the same day two men from the village arrives lamenting illnesses and Arya sees the maester’s face getting white for fear.


	2. I hauled myself up out of the ditch

Jaime reaches the deck and the silence he finds there is louder than a thunder in the early morning peace: the helmsman is sat at the helm, head bowed and a log between the raggi, as to fix the direction of the boat; another man is lying dead on the floor, near a wineskin whose content had been spilled and had mixed with the red from his face, the same red Jaime saw on his daughter’s face.   
The third is nowhere to be found, until a piece of tissue swapping on the wind gets his attention and he sees boot covered feet near the bilge. Jaime get closer, the sailor is trying to crawl, he kneels beside him and the man grabs his jacket with his last strength.  
“The …wine…poison.” He hears from dry lips, just before he man shudders and his eyes get blank.  
Jaime tries to free the helm, the boat is pointing at the open sea, he needs to reach solid ground, not back in Dorne, but he does not recognize the coastal line he sees on his right. Whatever, he steers the boat toward it.   
\---

Gendry follows the maester every morning for a week, carrying his heavy bag around the village and the countyside, they discover other people has white pimples all over their bodies. The master drinks from a vial and offers it to Gendry, who complies, the liquid has a horrible taste.  
They returns later and later in the evening, both tired; Arya’s task is to collect herbs from the fields, she is alone and some species are very rare, so she spends all her days away. She cooks some soups and feed the exhausted men before retiring for the night, sleeping on a bunch of straws; Gendry offers her his narrow bed and she refuses, he’s doing more work, he needs to rest and there is the charged look, the different look he often gives her that makes using his bed a bad idea.   
When two villagers die in the space of a morning followed by Lommy, Gendry runs to find Arya.   
“You have to leave!” he orders her, desperate and sweating after the effort.   
“I won’t.”  
“Lommy is dead! Hot Pie has all the signs. We’re at risk!”   
Arya tries to protest, Gendry pushes her away, forcing a bundle in her hands. When she opposes, he grabs her shoulder, keeping her at arm’s length to make her listen to him.  
“Arya, you’re all the family I have. You can’t risk the infection. I ..I had the hope to marry you someday, but you’re a lady and I’m only a bastard, with nothing to offer you.”  
Her eyes are huge, she’s shocked, he overcomes his big fear of refusal, now he don’t care anymore because it can be the last time they see each other.   
“If we’re condemned, I want you to leave. You’re fine, you are away from here all day. Men are more ill than women. Walk away, walk West, King’s Landing is at a few days’ distance.”   
Arya has no time to reply, Gendry gives her a brief kiss on the forehead, makes her turn and waits until she walks opposite the village. 

\---

The boats runs aground on the shore, Jaime jumps into the knee high water with a bag filled hastily – a tunic and breeches, gold coins, bread and dried slices of meat - and the biggest water skin he find on board. The coastal line is quite flat, trees aligned behind the wide pebble beach, it is low tide and the ship is far form the land. It is cold, colder than in Dorne, and he takes for the night a blue cloak found on the deck. A last kiss on Myrcella’s forehead, wrapped in his red cloak; in death she will be forever a true lion, not a stag. Her face is a young Cersei, Myrcella is the best thing he created and he gave her away for Cersei’s desire of power.   
He has no more tears to offer his little girl, except a broken heart.. what if he dared to tell her the truth before, to know earlier she was so glad to have been sired by him and not by a fat and drunk man. For Jaime, Myrcella has never been a bastard, better being a child of love than by a loveless arranged marriage.   
The poisoning of his daughter and of the whole crew was planned, he had to be included, too, Jaime is sure now, he touches with a glove the gift he has been given at the pier, a parchment tied out with such strength that a single handed man like him would have used this teeth to unlace the ribbon.  
It smells, he takes a tissue to pass over the ribbon and see traces of a dark substance.   
No one knows he has escaped the poisoning, the kingslayer can disappear for a while, so he holds a burning torch and looks at the boat one last time before throwing it on the bunch of sails.   
Soon flames roar and he hears the wood cracking while he walks away, never turning back. 

\---

Arya keeps herself for a few days off from signed paths and avoid villages or towns, she drinks fresh water from streams and eats fruits from low branches, it’s the harvest season; once she thinks to kill a rabbit or a squirrel but it will be too dangerous to stake a fire.  
Human voices or horses in the distance and she jumps on the best tree around until they fade away.   
She misses her friends more than she imagined, meeting them on her way back from Braavos has been a lucky chance, being parted again so soon makes her sad. Are they alive? Can Gendry avoid the disease with the remedy the maester gave him?   
The third day she is unlucky, three men with a carriage make camp too close to her hiding place, it is a narrow woodland and she is trapped; she cannot sleep, it is too risky to lower her attention level. She is hungry, too, they roast meat on the fire and her tongue is dry and she hears her stomach rumble.  
They leave in the morning, opposite direction, and she breathes in relief, she cannot get home by foot, she needs a proper mount and soon. 

\---

Smell of a chimney, sound of hens, a mule, Jaime reaches the end of the trees and nestled between two soft slopes there is sees a hamlet: a small stone building, two wooden ones, a paddock, a pond.  
His belly is empty, his clothes dirt, like his face; ha takes off the golden hand, hides it in his bag, pretending to be a lone traveller: he can buy something to eat, leave and continue unnoticed.   
People can spot him in the open, so Jaime assumes a humble pose, against his Lannister pride, better relaxed shoulders and low head than the arrogance of a knight.  
He’s close to the paddock and no human sounds, his steps are loud on the ground, only the mule comes near the fence and bares his teeth, a curious smile, not a menace.  
Jaime approaches the entrance door, half open, and announces himself, receiving no answers; he takes a step inside and on a chair close to the table a boy sits with his head absurdly thrown back, mouth open, arms dangling along the torso.  
Jaime has seen enough battles to understand he’s staring at a dead body.   
A quick exploration of the hamlet and he finds three other corpses: a man composed for the mourning, laid on a bench, a woman in a bed and another young man beside the stable, all without traces of slaughtering. No cuts, no wounds, no broken bones; is it poison, or is he too focused on Mycella’s death to think otherwise?   
A bunch of thieves would have killed, taken the animals, raided the food and probably burned everything to avoid leaving traces, but the horses are in the stable, winter stocks are stored inside the small warehouse, Jaime wants to fill his stomach, but he don’t want to touch anything. The pond is home of ducks and fish, easy to catch, so he sets a fire outside and roasts three trout, the most delicious food he has ever tasted; a dead hen hanging from a hook is still fresh and he cooks it to store the meat for later.  
Then he puts his glove on, to observe closer the bodies. White pimples on the face, hands, arms, the exposed chest of the first boy reveals more bulges, some are open and yellow sewage has dried around them.   
Jaime leaves the paddock gate open, letting the mule and three draft horses reach the fresh grass, he keeps the younger and stronger horse by the bridle, no saddles around, only garments for the wagon; he mounts bareback - a memory of his early years, learning to ride under his father’s severe gaze - and head for the hills.


	3. Well I woke last night to the heavy clicking and clack

A lone horse, a slow one, heavy, a draft horse more likely than a steed, a lone rider.  
Arya is sleeping between a rock and a fallen trunk, hidden as best as she can, but the sound is approaching fast.  
Shit, she thinks, she has been very careful to stay away from trading routes after she left the men with carriage. She stands, swiftly, grabs her sack and keels behind the rocks to observe. The daylight is strong, already late morning: exhausted, she has slept too much, she fells tired from the walking and she is starved, the forest is mostly coniferous, no berries around to eat.  
Someone who hides like her can me more dangerous than some traders.  
When she notices the horse is without rider, she turns but it is too late, above a rock stands a tall man with short golden hair and a drawn sword.  
Clever idea to hide there, but you left too many traces of your presence.  
Her gaze shifts from the man to her surroundings she has only a way out, on her right, but his stance is strong and he’s not a man easy to trick. He cast a glance on her way out, he has already anticipate her reactions, she lifts needle, ready to strike.  
“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t harm yourself with your little dagger. What are you doing here all alone?”  
“Who tells you I’m alone?”  
“Twenty years of fighting gives me a good knowledge, I suppose. And why a girl sleeps out in the woods and not in her own bed?”  
She’s young, petite, probably around the age of his own, at the same she is the opposite of Myrcella. A young warrior, a strong one. the way she hands the dagger, capable, used to be on the road. He push away the memories of his daughter, for now.  
“I’m not a girl!”  
“Oh you are, you are. And something tells me you’re hiding your true self. Quite well, I dare say, except for me.”  
He cocks his head, an intense and arrogant look in his eyes, he is studying her and she does the same on him.  
The shining sparkle on his right wrist gives Arya the sudden realization she knows him well.  
“And you’re the kingslayer.”  
“At your service.”  
He seems distracted for a brief moment, observing her with great attention, as trying to make a connection and Arya suddenly sprints away.  
She is fast, his legs are long: when he grabs her shoulder and manages to block her with his weight, green eyes meeting grey ones, Jaime shakes his head, incredulous.  
He has seen those eyes before, in his youth, his happy years when he wasn’t bound to the king and to wows he never truly could keep.  
Eyes of the Northern wolf girl who wanted to be free and ended up prisoner of two men.  
And Jaime remembers a little girl with grey irises, in a castle far away, he remembers his fat and old king staring at her, with a look of wanton Jaime found disgusting.  
Lyanna Stark is here, trapped under him, reborn in her young niece.  
Arya Stark fights, she kicks him and catches his groin, making him groan in pain, but Jaime is too tall and strong for her, his hold on her wrist and needle is out of her reach.  
“You’re the young stark daughter. Arya.”  
He pins her arms and his legs trap hers, lifting his chest as not to crush her. Then his words shocked her.  
“We can make a truce.”

A Lannister, a natural enemy for a Stark, and not a casual one: Jaime Lannister in person, the kingslayer, the man without honour, the oathbreaker, the dark knight opposite to his golden image.  
For how long hate, disgust, pain filled her heart thinking about him and his family with his father and twin sister on her death list.  
Arya has been long away from home, hidingafter cruel king Joffrey beheaded her father. She don’t want to deal with another Lannister, her efforts to escape from his grasp increase.  
He can’t believe how strong she is, the little girl he met once is a young woman, not sweet and delicate, her body is muscular, her movements show she knows how to wrestle, how to strike.  
“Stop hitting me, we need to help each other.”  
“Never.”  
“I made a promise to your mother to bring you back home, harmless.”  
“My mother would never listen to a men like you.” She spits on his face, he don’t’ blink nor tries to wipe off her saliva.  
“She set me free, sending Brienne of Tarth with me. You disappeared for months.”  
“I found a place to train.”  
“Listen, I don’t want to argue anymore. I’ve escaped poisoning and found a whole hamlet dead by some disease. I’m supposed dead until I find who is behind that. We need to leave from here soon.”  
Her face changes, she’ s suddenly interested in his revelations.  
“What disease?”  
“I don’t know, they had white pimples all over, a family of four for what I saw.”  
She prompts him to describe better the dead, every detail he recollects.  
Jaime is curious for her insistence, until he notices she’s no more opposing him; he lets her upper body free, sitting on his heels and observing her.  
“My companions and me ended up in a village with that infection. The boys got ill and forced me to leave. I’ve run alone since.”  
She’s shaking, a inner storm blows suddenly and she turns away from him, her pride prevents her to express pain and regrets.  
“I’m sorry, Arya.”  
His voice is tender, low, he’s a father of a young girl, he was a father, another man pretended to care about Myrcella and he’s crying inside, he can’t stop.  
“I’ve lost my girl. She was murdered.”  
Surprised, she stares at him again.  
“You’re a kingsguard, forbidden to have a family. Or children.”  
“Myrcella…”  
How can he tell her the truth, the whole truth? Would she despise him more than she already does? Can he now reveal twenty years of sins that are his personal walk of shame?  
“Your niece?”  
“My …daughter.” It’s easier than he imagines to be honest, a stone off his chest, he has the validation he wanted from Myrcella, now he can inform the rest of the world. “She knew and she was glad to be mine.”  
“She’s no Robert’s? Sure hair and eyes don’t match. And the princes?”  
Arya’s surprised, never she believed to the rumours spread around half the kingdoms. Jaime cant’ hide a note of pride in his reply.  
“All mine.”  
“You and.. the queen? Your own sister!”  
Her disgust and repulsion hits him, she stands and walks away, for a long time he sees her back only, but  
she isn’t finished, she suddenly turns.  
“So that monstrous Joffrey who maimed Sansa was marred from birth?”  
Her voice is rising, the awareness of who her companion is; she noticed the blond in the boy king and didn’t care, but suspecting is a thing, knowing the truth shifts her priorities now that she needs to face Joffre’s biological father.  
“He’s dead, too. I have only Tommen left, and he is in Cersei’s power.”


	4. When our hope and faith and courage and trust

This fragile peace between a lion and a wolf is born from mere need.  
He’s got a horse, she's good with her dagger, he’s escaping poisoning, she knows the area better.  
They are far from their respective home lands, she wants to go North, Winterfell, for the first time in his life he has no desire al all to face his sister.  
Cersei is becoming crazy, Joffrey's death has been a huge blow for his twin, he believes she cannot cope Myrcella’s and Jaime fears the wounded lioness.  
She is so close to the faith militants, needing new and powerful allies in her personal revenge against the Tyrrels and Tyrion. If he helps Arya, he can fulfil the promise made to Lady Stark, show he is a man worth of honour again.  
And so they head toward her home, Arya’s weight unnoticed by his strong horse; the first evening a mill is their refuge, a roof provides a better shelter than the dark sky.  
Jamie offers the food he found at the farm, she 's sceptical due to the disease but their hunger is too strong to resist.  
The place has been unused for a while, as the layers of dust and the dry big wheel confirm, there are no human traces, dead or alive.  
“Guard duty. I will go first.”  
Jamie declares, she's surprised, it’s strange the idea to sleep beside him while he's awake.  
Before she protests, he puts a horse blanket near the fireplace for her to lie on.  
“We have only this, it is too late to search inside the mill now.”  
“I don't need it.”  
“You need to rest. I want you to do the second shift.”  
She is resigned, keeping Needle close to her chest.  
He's got a way to be caring that mirrors her father’s and Syrio’s, but he is the opposite of them, she has to remember he is a Lannister. He returns from making water and stops beside the fire, towering above her.  
“Don't you dare to get close!”  
He looks down at Arya in confusion, what is she implying? He has already stated he won't hurt her, he is offering her what he got, the mess they are into goes further their house hatred history.  
“Some oaths I can keep.”  
“You are a man. With man’s desires. I can use Needle faster than you imagine and I am a light sleeper. Your sister won’t be glad if you miss another body part. Especially the one I mean to cut.”  
He laughs aloud: she doesn’t know his sister has been his only woman ever. Does she think her body is attractive for him or that he’s so starved of sex to grab the first opportunity of a young body?  
“I’m a man, but not that kind of men. Goodnight, Arya Stark.”

“We need food, clothes and a horse for you.”  
The mornings are chillier the more they head North; four days without meeting people, but they are running low of food and hunting or fishing requires time.  
They are forced to trust each other, Arya has to admit Jamie is good at living on the road, probably better than she is: a grown up man, in good health, a trained knight: While she hide like a clever cat, he is an impressive man, his presence barely goes unnoticed.  
“We don't have money.”  
Jaime’s hand reaches into his pocket, a sachet full of gold coins is useful everywhere and there’s a good number into it.  
“Lannister gold?”  
Her tone to mock him, his wealth compared to her few belongings since she left for Braavos.  
“Our gold now. There is a village in the valley below, I have seen it from the top of the hill.”  
They are too close to the West to be safe, she is still searched for her marriageable value, a Stark heir, especially after Jamie heard reports Sansa was in the Vale with Baelish, a man he vividly despises, a clever man who surely has Sansa watched and forced to stay with him.  
His hand is too visible, so he wraps the stump in a brown piece of cloth, the gold hidden to the sight.  
Her eyes are impossible to hide; she observes his every movement and she’s a wolf indeed.  
“People will ask us questions for travelling together.”  
“We can pass for father and daughter.”  
“Me your daughter? Are you joking?”  
She’s offended by his claim, he has dared too much, stepping into a forbidden territory. Ned’s memories inside her heart are the fuel to her vengeance; in Jaime’s face a trace of sadness, he’d like to have a daughter again, regretting his time with Myrcella. 

Their purchases are hanging from both saddles. The village is quiet, peaceful traders in the weekly market makes easy for the duo to mingle with other people.  
Arya’s face is dirt, thanks to a squirt of mud on her cheek, it’s a convenient way of concealing her true identity, a sort of squire she is, a servant, travelling with a man posed as a minor son of a noble house, a former soldier without a hand after one of the many battles fought.  
People barely notices her, except for a fat man behind a stall, who asks Jaime if his boy has a price for the night.  
Arya hides behind Jaime’s back, her horror ignites in him a desire to protect, but he has to be careful, not to raise suspicions and stirs an attack. If the man somehow gets under her clothes, he’ll find her true sex and probably a fast death; Jaime wears a smile and a quick reply.  
“I’m keeping him clean, no clap and wife at home’s quiet.”  
A blink, the man laughs loudly showing his toothless mouth.  
“Better safe than sorry. Tight ass I bet he has.”  
“Tighter you imagine.”  
Jaime picks up the honey jars and walk away, prompting Arya to move, before her temper snaps and she starts insulting him in public. She isn’t stupid, but her wolf blood’s hard to tame and the concept of sexuality – hers, his – is something she hasn’t come to term yet, some signs assures him so. At her age, he has already fucked his twin sister more than once. At her age high born girls are already sold off to older men; she’s escaped that fate, but is she thinking about remaining a maiden like Brienne? Why these thoughts are forming into his mind and why now? His own daughter was set to marry soon, she loved her betrothed – a rare lucky match for her – but Arya was promised to a Frey, Sansa said, years before Arya escaped. Would Arya be obedient or ready to cut off the groom’s throat on her wedding night? This last option seems more probable considering her attitude, but Jaime enters into a dangerous land, thinking about her first night.

Her horse is a young filly with a skittish temperament, the cheapest animal to buy from the local seller, but her legs are powerful and she’s strong.  
His carries the heavy goods, the gielding is quite double the female; Jaime misses his horses, at home, the sleek animals his father gifted him since he was a young boy, the white one of the guards.  
Lost in his recollection, his calf is kicked by a small foot; there’s a dark expression on Arya’s face, not of anger, more resembling calculation.  
“I’ve walked beside the village master’s house.”  
She starts when she has his full attention.  
“There were a few people around, waiting to see him.”  
It’s straight, her line of thought, more peasants than usual, more illnesses, maybe …  
“Did you saw pimples on them?”  
“I kept myself at safe distance.”  
She’s more clever than him, maybe the notion he was the less brilliant Lannister was right and she fears the fast spreading of the disease and they have bought foods and clothes into the village.  
“We need to cook everything before eating it, and it is better to do the same for our clothing. If we can’t find a big pot, we need a stream to wash them.”  
His practical old soldier’s notions come to use, this new adventure they are into is useful to forget for a while Cersei, Myrcella and his messed up life.  
“Lannister...”  
She starts again, he smiles at her as an encouragement.  
“That man at the stall wanted my ass, like in brothels?”  
“He believed you were a boy and boys are known….”  
She is staring at him, very interested, and Jaime realises he's talking with a high born lady of things she is not presumed to know: his hesitation is lost on Arya, who continues.  
“I have seen people doing sex. There are... positions.”  
“How do you know it?”  
She tells him about working in a tavern, but he's confused.  
“You are young.”  
“I am not so young! Gendry wanted to marry me. But I don't want to get trapped and beside he is sure dead by now.”


	5. There were empty cities and burning plains

Two days of incessant rain, they’re drenched to the bone, it is too cold to continue and Jaime open the inn’s wooden door.  
They have abandoned the forest because it is impossible to follow a clear path; Arya has been doubtful but Jaime has insisted, who would be on the main road with such a bad weather?  
Her acquiescence seems a little out of character to him, probably Brienne would never stop, Arya is not the blue woman, if only for the different size.  
The fire in the corner is a magnet for Arya: if she runs to it, she is sure freezing. Arya takes off her gloves, but keeps her cloak – dressed as a man she is, better to be careful – and asks for some hot wine. If Jaime is surprised by her request, he simply pays and sits beside her into the warm seat.  
“Want to sleep here tonight?”  
He asks, hoping she agrees; he’s tired and worn out, he’s sad thinking about Myrcella, uncertain about his – theirs – future. To say the truth, he’s double Arya’s age, without a hand and has fought enough battles for two lifetimes, not just one. A night of peace, a night to rest is all he dreams for now. Their horses have been tied outside and from a window he has checked three tables are occupied.  
It’s a quiet evening. Their horses need a shelter, too.  
“The innkeeper’s wife is staring at us. She noticed you use your left hand to drink.”  
Arya whispers in Jaime’s ear, her mouth a little too close for his comfort; she smells of musk and mud, of horses and sweat, deep down she smells of life.  
He has never been there before, but his fame as the blonde one handed knight precedes him everywhere now.  
They can leave the inn, get back on the road, ride under the rain, when the door opens and a gush of wet air invades the room.  
A young men enters, the owner hugs him, the cloak drips water all around the stone floor.  
“Father, it's getting worse. A storm.” Says the newcomer and Arya first looks around then at Jamie, who is rubbing his right arm for the cold; she approaches the innkeeper, holding the small purse Jamie has given her for purchases.  
A quick pass of coins is enough to buy warm food and a room for the travelling couple, hard for Jaime to continue with only a hand under heavy rain. The innkeeper agrees with nods, Arya plays the loyal wife who takes good care of her man.  
It’s the first time since leaving Dorne that he’s really hungry, he craves nourishment so he lets Arya take the decisions, if she has a plan better not interfere into her choice to pass as a young bride of the North, married to a merchant, once the accommodation is paid they simply become customers like all the others.  
The owner’s wife - Emer her name - brings hearty rations of stew and potatoes and a strong ale, Jaime eats and listens carefully the women’s dialogue.  
“You are from the North, but not your husband.”  
“He's home in the East, we married at my village last month. He comes every year for his purchases.”  
“Blessed the Gods! Long life and many healthy children.”  
Arya swallows at the wish and tries a courteous smile, the topic of children is bitter for both, she’s got no plans to become a mother, he grabs the knife with such strength to cut a finger and his throat closes at the memory of his girl, her ghost appears when he leaves his guard down.  
“I need to buy things in next town market.”  
“You’ll hardly find one, I have heard some towns have closed the walls to foreigners.”  
Arya pretends to be truly surprised and worried, she wants Emer to talk more.  
“What do they fear? Is there another war coming?”  
“A maester stayed here last week and told us more people than usual are ill and die. The arch master at the Citadel wanted to examine the corpses.”  
Arya and Jaime exchange a charged look, better to leave first thing in the morning; Jamie empties his cup and at her signal follows Arya upstairs.

___

Old tales from his aunt Genna, to scare the children telling them about dangers and death around Casterly Rock, ghosts that killed relatives, great-great aunts and distant cousins, when the Lord of the time helped the folks, offering them masters, food and clean water.  
Jaime and Cersei believed her while Tyrion was always asking questions; his brother, the sharpest mind Jaime knows.  
They have no way to discuss with a maester about their shared suspicions.  
The room is warm thanks to the fire, the bed large enough for two.  
Arya grabs a piece of paper and a feather from the desk in the corner and counts back the days on the road, his since he touched land, hers since she left Gendry.  
Tyrion’s extensive readings would be of help to explain a plague’s diffusion speed, Cersei would lock every town gate, hide behind barren doors and burn candles and incenses to keep the royal rooms safe.  
Time to rest, Arya keeps breeches and shirt on and soon fells into a deep sleep, Jaime lies on his back, too soft the bed, too loud the storm, he stares at the red flames of the fire and mulls over the itinerary to follow.  
When Arya moves in her sleep, rolling toward him, her fingers brushing his arm, he freezes: her head is close to his chest and he reduces his breathing, afraid to disturb Arya. Jaime observes her, her hair are short and different from Cersei’s golden mane, the only other woman he shared a bed with before.  
It’s a closeness different from being alone under the stars, Arya’s good with people, she has tricked Emer, making her see a dutiful wife only, not a feral wolf on the run.  
Arya lets out some grunts and half words, a nightmare or a bad dream and he lightly touches her shoulder to make her stop.  
In the morning, her sounds using a bucket of hot water to clean herself wakes Jaime; she’s in the middle of the room, her back is bare and the skin so pale to seem white. Arya turns her head and she looks at Jaime in silence, face wet and hands red, then without a word and without shame grabs her shirt and goes behind the screen to let him use the water.  
“We’re better into the wild than with people.” He declares saddling the horses.  
The neck is their new target.  
Few inhabitants, arid land, beaten by winds, hard to cross, but assuring them access to the northern plains and hills.  
After, they will be safer, protected by the cold, close to Winterfell.  
Jaime do not know how and if the Starks and the other northern lords will welcome him; he simply assumes being with Arya will help him to stay alive.  
“Yes. We better avoid people. You’ve been away in Dorne, it's hard you’re infected. I’ve been closer to the plague.”  
She’s right, but his gut tells Jaime she won’t leave him soon for the Sevens, they’ve find a strange agreement, an unusual connection.  
He has bought another saddle bag at the inn, his horse is huge and without his armour he’s travelling light.  
Arya insists he wears warmer clothes.  
“You’re no good cold and without a few fingers.”  
“I like my fingers. All my fifteen.”  
“So dress you up.”  
“And you?”  
“I’m used to.”  
But she has been away, he declares, and in different, warmer place, and the northern blood has vanished a little.  
She reacts, she spars with words, he laughs, free after a long time to be simply a man, not a knight without his father’s cold eyes on him and the weight of the white cloak on his shoulders.  
The old lion won’t be happy to know about his whereabouts, when he explains Arya the importance of his newfound freedom she points out his golden hand found inside the burned boat would have been a better proof.  
She’s clever, another of her skills, Jaime decides it is better to let Arya plan the journey, he trusts her more than she trust him, or he’d not sleep beside her every night.


	6. I feel you breathing, the rest is confusion

The Reach conquered, flat lands, boring lands, they move toward Harrenhal, her nervousness increases the more they approach the town.   
“There is something that worries you.” He’s good at observing Arya, now.  
“It’s nothing.”  
“I think Harrenhal means something for you.”  
Her silence is the answer he needs, but it’s a game long to play; it’s easier to interact with people less scheming and complicated than Cersei, away from the crown and all the political intrigues that were good for Tyrion only.   
She softens her stance only when they stop to eat; in Harrenhal she met Jaime’s father and a faceless man who later trained her, until she crossed the sea again to return home and got delayed by news of Joffrey’s death and Sansa’s disappearance. She hopes Jaqen H’ghar is safe far away in Braavos, she’s already lost too many people. Jaime talks, distracts her, a few jokes to make her laugh, then he goes direct.  
“Do you know Harrenhal well?”   
“Like a mouse.”  
Fuck, he’s got her defences down and hit the target. The man is clever, sometimes, or Arya is forgetting her effort at being faceless during their exhausting travel. Once discovered, Arya decides to tell Jaime about her time spent with the old lion.  
He’s incredule.  
“Father’s cupbearer? I can’t believe you disguised as a servant.”  
“I was efficient and silent.”  
Jaime laughs so loud Arya wants him to stop, his voice resounds all around their campsite.  
“So my father liked to talk with you?”  
“I amused him. He kept asking about my family, but I was reserved.”  
“Good choice.”  
With the war going on and king Robb’s offensive, if Tywin Lannister somehow realised his cupbearer was one of the keys to the north Arya sure would be dead or locked inside a dungeon.   
“He was kind to me often he wanted me to eat part of his meal. He said I was so skinny.”   
“You changed a little, you’re skinny.”  
“You’re getting thin, too. It’s not a pleasure ride we’re having. When we’ll get home, I’ll treat you with the best food Winterfell can offer. Our table’s always full when we have guests. “   
Her eyes shines when she thinks about home: her mother, her siblings, her world, her castle.   
He’s never felt such a connection with his ancestral seat, Cersei was his home, he renounced the heritage for her and never regretted it until he lost his hand. The realisation loosing his sword hand had an impact on his whole identity was a huge blow that haunted his thoughts for many months.

\---

They part at the main town gate, he’ll find an accommodation, she’ll search for info and they’ll meet again, later.   
When Arya is back, her eyes are dead inside and she’s unsure on her feet. Jaime swiftly grabs her by the arm and pushes her along the streets to the room he’s hired; she lets him, her stubbornness and pride fading away with every step away from the crowd at the market.   
She sits wordless at the table and stares at the wall, deaf to his attempts to understand what happened.   
Only later, when the darkness falls, and Jaime lights candles and bring more logs to have light and heath she reacts, her few words barely a whisper and he bents to catch them.   
“The plague started from the Vale, Bran knows. We warged. A foreign maester was covered in gold for creating it. But he lost control. It was meant to be different.”   
“Are you sure?”  
“At the Twins, for a wedding… Mother, Robb and his wife died. Bran has visions since he fell from the tower. I saw his eyes roll under the eyelids and he spoke with another voice.”   
Jaime is without words, bows his head to hide his shame at the memory of the young Stark. Now they are both wanted dead and must be more careful than ever. House Stark is in danger, Jaime hopes the burned boat will be enough to fake his death, but there is also Arya’s safety to consider now.   
Arya is white like a ghost and Jaime is forced to leave their room, a decision he regrets for fear she does something stupid; he will return soon with food, he must send Tyrion an urgent raven, praying no one intercepts it.   
Bran is silent, Arya tries to connect with him, she wants to know about the rest of her family while they are stuck in Harrenhal, waiting for Tyrion answers, and the delay makes Jaime nervous.   
The second night Arya turns and twists in her fractured sleep and Jaime can't rest thinking about his own family.  
Jamie hopes they are all well; his only surviving son’s a worry, there’s Tyrion to keep an eye on the boy but his brother’s powerless if the mother lioness and the old lion are against him.   
To tell the truth, Cersei and Tywin are the last on his mind, all the more when Arya open her eyes and starts coughing.  
She complains of stomach cramps, soon she retches, but Jamie is well, they ate the same meat and cheese he bought earlier. It’s not her moon blood, he has asked, a little embarrassed and she’s unimpressed. Her blood never impacted on her body before, not like Sansa who was in bed two days a month.  
“You’re feverish,” He states after touching her forehead, she’s sat in front of the fire wrapped up in hers and his cloak.  
“I am never ill.”  
“Stubbornness can cause illness.”   
He retorts, not knowing if her symptoms are related to the disease, he has to know more.  
“Lommy had the signs on his body.”  
“We need to check on you.”  
“If I got it, I am fucked up, same as you.”  
He believes it is something else, she has been on the run for days now, never complaining, never relending in her absolute desire to go home and the tragic news she receives is a massive blow.   
“We'll fight it. Fever first.”  
“You aren’t a maester.”  
“Neither you are, but I have seen many soldiers suffer and I have tended to them. I am not as heartless as your family thinks.”  
He forces her to lie still, covers her with furs and collects tea and some bread; he knows what fever is since he lost his hand.  
For a few hours she is warm, then her teeth rattle and he forces her to drink a cup of hot tea.  
Vigil is long and Jaime concentrates on Arya only, when she shivers he joins her on the bed and holds her tight, fighting her impulse to get rid of the covers.  
She frantically tears the open of her tunic and her skin is white porcelain in the dim light Jaime has to look for the signs of death, this is something he must forget, deny, never admit in front of her, because Arya is around Myrcella’s age, her breasts are full like young Cersei’s were, and he is only tending to her, not dishonoring her body.   
His mind closes sinful thoughts out and he’s glad for the miracle, the skin is perfect and untouched so Jaime can breathe pure relief and continue his vigil.  
Arya wakes up with the sun up in the sky, a running nose and sore throat but feverless; a warm arm is draped over her chest, she’s confused but not repulsed.  
Jaime is spooning her, asleep; Arya should be scared for such a closeness, it is not like sleeping with Hot Pie on the road, this is a grown up man, with a man’s body. All the soft and hard spots are in the right place, there is the curiosity to explore him a little, but she’s too weak.  
She slides off and uses the chamber pot, barefoot, not to disturb Jamie; after drinking a cup of water, she kneels to put more logs into the fire, when she stands again her head spins, so she leans on the bed again, staying on her side.  
He has tended to her all the time, she remembers him calling her name and Myrcella’s, afraid to loose again someone.  
It has been years since Arya left herself been taking care and it’s a weakness she is unsure to partake with Jamie.  
When she opens her eyes again it's midday, Jamie is fully dressed at the table, eating lunch.


	7. These days I spend  my time skipping through the dark

Long nights, longer spent in the cold, their tent is a thin shelter, he’s found two cheap used bedrolls, without a bad smell; Arya’s closer to the entrance for the first shift.  
After Arya was better, Jaime has been in a hurry to leave Harrenhal: the wind has changed, it will bring a hotter weather, it will bring people gatherings to the fairs, new houses and roads and farms will be built and Jaime wants to run from all of this.  
No ravens from Tyrion and his worries increase, he dreams of long blond hair and of a beautiful smile, a little girl is following her mother’s steps, hands raised to be lifted up and hold tight, but Cersei is watching Joffrey riding his new horse and got no time for Myrcella.  
The girl turns to him, calls for her strong uncle and he offers both arms, his right one still whole, and suddenly Cersei hits him hard, pushing him away, Myrcella cries and runs to him but their gap increases, she can’t run enough to grab his legs and she fades back into a foggy darkness until with a scream Jaime wakes up and clangs to a slim shoulder, the first thing he finds not to drown. She’s not scared and doesn’t push him away. She understands, her demons are similar.  
“I killed Myrcella. I swore to protect all of them secretly and I failed.”  
“It is not your fault. Who sent her to Dorne?”  
“My family. For political alliances. I never had a voice about it.”  
He’s breathing heavily, his heart thumps in his chest, and Arya caresses absently the bare stump, an instinctive gesture of comfort she doesn’t know she has in her and he’s never received, expecially from Cersei.  
“Who are you running from?” She asks abruptly.  
“I’m not…”  
Arya stands and Jaime misses the closeness, misses the touch.  
“Don’t lie to me, you’re afraid. And don’t try to impress me with some of your jokes.”  
His breathing returns normal and Jaime is glad the darkness hides his face.  
She is right, he’s going in the wrong direction, the wrong alliance, he should be by Cersei’s side now, offering her another corpse, mourning with her.  
The plague is also an excuse not to face the reality: he doesn’t want to go back to Kings Landing. he clings to a new purpose for the time being, he grabs the second chance life has thrown at him, the promise made to her mother.  
He explains, incoherent words, his mind’s messed up; Arya is silent mostly, until Jaime is at a loss for words. There’s a lot more than an oathbreaker in him, there’s still honour hidden under the layers of mistakes he made.  
“Whatever, we’ll keep our path, now rest, we both need sleep, dawn’s too soon.” 

\---

The farther from civilization they get, the more dangers can arise and Bran’s just a whisper that Arya cannot hear now, she only knows he’s alive. For three days no human presence.  
Building the camp on the shores of a narrow lake, Arya starts the fire near a clearing, while Jaime tends to the horses.  
They give up the idea of vigil, her ears are sensitive enough to perceive dangers , his reactions are fast, keeping a hand always on widow’s wail.  
The fire is small, the good logs scarce, Jaime laments, they both are tired and desperate for a few hours of rest.  
They sit close to share warmth, to be alert of each other movements.  
She listens to the sounds of the woods, the nocturnal birds, the predators, the wind, but the real menace is from the whiff of sweat and dirt her nostrils catch.  
Arya suddenly kicks the burning logs, covers the embers with ashes and soil, puts a hand over Jaime’s mouth to silence his protests.  
He by reflex draws his sword and assumes a defensive stance, ready to strike; those who approaches silently at night are more likely enemies than friends; they have been spotted, the smoke, the flames, their breaths. 

\--- 

At the light of dawn they examine the corpses of the four thieves that have crossed their path.  
Each has killed twice and it’s good to be even, Arya has been fast and silent while Jaime grunted and took long breaths for the effort to raise his sword one handed.  
She mocks him for his weakness, Jaime needs more training, they will spar every day from now on, there is still a long way to reach Winterfell and she can teach him tricks she masters, a different kind of dancing with weapons. He feels goofy and slow beside her, she’s less solid and weaker than Brienne, his only other example of female fighter, he’s not too old to change.  
But Arya’s fast, so fast he can't quite recall how she got rid of her preys.  
Her first target kneeled over the faked shape made with their bags and blankets, Needle hit him from behind straight into his heart.  
The second man Arya killed had a fit of cough that made him heard and for those few seconds he become another easy target.  
When she has turned, Jaime has half beheaded his first assailant, fighting with the second, a tall and muscular man with an axe.  
Jaime slips on the muddy ground – some fallen leaves have gotten rotten under the trees and for a second he looses position. The axe above him, ready to strike and it can be a huge blow, one hard to recover from, so Arya lets out a fake cry of pain and the tall man is wrong in turning just a little toward her, because Jaime’s on his knees with his sword up, pointing at the belly. A thrust up, the weight of the body and he’s dead.  
There’s a carriage close by, old and quite small, Jaime forbids Arya to inspect it, whatever useful things they can find inside.  
Instead he offers to do the disrobing, but with a hand only it will be complicated to cut the clothes, and Arya hold a short knife and gloves. The second killer has the sign of disease.  
“Where I was before, I had to take care of the dead. Clean them and prepare for the graves.”  
“And you still refuse to tell me about that place?”  
“It’s complicated.” 

\---

“I remember when I first saw you.”  
Jaime’s back stiffens and he has the impulse to turn, he refrains because he’s naked to the waist bent over a tub and she’s too close, her hands in his hair.  
They are inside a fishing cabin near the bend of a low river and after controlling it’s abandoned and there are no dead bodies around, it is good to have a roof again. The killing of the previous night has worn out both.  
Jaime throws the fishing nets and Arya puts water on the fire for a bath in the small tub. A luxury, is it the property of some minor house?  
They have sparred for a while and he’s getting better with speed, reacting faster, sharper.  
She gets rid of her clothes and lowers herself into the steaming water, a pity it is small, Jaime won’t be comfortable into, but she’ll help him washing his hair. Their clothes have an awful smell and she needs to soak for a long time.  
Jaime holds the fishes, already cleaned for the fire, then he grabs the discarded clothes; through the steam he can see her head and neck only from the edge of the tub, nothing improper.  
“What are you doing?”  
“I want to start cleaning our things.”  
She points at her smallclothes on a stool beside the tub.  
“There’s blood there.”  
“Are you hurt?”  
His face shows concern, but she has behaved normally all day, never complaining about wounds.  
“It’s my dried moon blood, I had no way to change until now.” Jaime retrieves clean clothes for both, the idea of a bath is so tempting, also if the water gets warm after she has used it.  
She’s done, his turn for the hair, so full of dirt the blonde has disappeared. He can’t clean his head with a hand only, so he kneels and follows her instructions.  
So he’s surprised she remembers him  
“It was in Winterfell? ”  
“When you took off your helm, I told Bran you were the queen’s twin. The great knight.”  
Under her gaze, his cheeks redden. How old was she? Eleven, twelve? Still a child, short and dressed in furs like all the lined up Starks.  
“You were waiting for the king.”  
“I was more curious to see the knights, the swords. My father was impatient to see his old friend and Sansa so caught up with Joffrey, she spoke about him only. But the king was fat and ugly, Joffrey was a stupid brat while your hair were so golden.”  
“I’m still golden!”  
He’s embarrassed to have caught a young girl’s attention and more because his body is reacting to her touch, his breeches are tight and uncomfortable, luckily the tub hides his erection. He thinks of his time in Winterfell with Bran Stark, not a trait of honour for him. Arya suddenly throws a bucket of hot water on his head and he gasps in surprise.  
“You had a real lion’s mane then. And you were whole. Now be still, let me rinse your hair.”  
Later Jaime sits with his back to the wall, looking at Arya sharpening Needle. He feels reborn, she has been great with his hair, the stump is useless and she used to help her sister in Kings landing, when Sansa’s hair were long and vane and Arya’s short and efficient. She has never pitied him for the stump, not like Cersei who was repulsed by it. His own father barely commented about it, only a shadow of disappointment crossing his face at the idea of having another crippled son. If the old lion was so crestfallen by his sons, why he never married again to have more? And if he loved his wife so much, anyway he forced his descendants into forced or loveless marriages.  
He tells Arya all he did in his life was never enough for Tywin Lannister.  
“For my family all my choices were wrong. Especially for my father.”  
“You still got him.”  
The longing for Ned is an ache that will never leave her heart.  
“I’ve started doing my choices only since I left home and saw father killed.”  
“You’re young, you have time to learn.”  
At her age, he too suffered important losses, deprived of his mother, with a distant father and Cersei only.  
Jaime doesn’t realise that the tale of why he killed the Mad King, of wildfire and pyromances and the fear of smelling burned flesh comes out easily. He trusts the young wolf like once he has trusted Brienne, the weight is off his shoulders and Ary struggles to reconcile her righteous father with the man who saw Jaime on the throne near the dead king and wanted his head for regicide.  
“My father never gave you the benefit of doubt?”  
“I know. But I never asked him, nor told him my reasons.”  
“He called you kingslayer once in front of the king at home and you remained impassible.”  
Her words has awakened memories of his first time at her house, brighter than the second – imprisoned, starved and cold, tied to his own shit – because Cersei had been with him, and at the same time darker, having nearly killed her brother.  
Does she suspects the cause of Stark and Lannister downfall is in his hand and in Cersei’s paranoid fear to be discovered?  
He’s guilt of crippling bran and let Ned be killed and Myrcella poisoned, all for Cersei and their twisted love. If he was brave enough to face his father and admit the incest, his daughter would be alive, they could have run away, build a family in the east, with another name, with enough gold for a living. If he had convinced Tywin that Cersei was his and his only, the children true Lannister heirs, the outcome could have been much better, Casterly Rock and his woman safe in his hold.  
A door he did not open, a path he never followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up a little, we'll see....


	8. Your skin touches mine, what else to explain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What else...indeed?

There is no one alive.  
The village is built around the lord’s castle, home of a minor house of the Eyre whose name they both refused to learn from their lessons long forgotten.  
Jaime and Arya keep their weapons in hands, jut to be safe, but the dozen of corpses they see approaching the drawbridge are only the beginning.  
The plague has been fast here, the majority of people died inside the houses – poor buildings with few furniture and fires without ashes, a sign of true misery – some simply collapsed on the muddy streets.  
Arya is stubborn.  
“Let’s check inside the castle.”  
Jaime tries to dissuade her, wanting to run away as fast as their horses can, hide again into the forests and never ever see a lifeless body again.  
She doesn’t stop and Jaime cuts two stripes from one of his tunics, forcing Arya to tie hers over mouth and nose.  
“Protect yourself.” He orders and this time she obeys: it s so un-Arya he wants to laugh and it will sound absurd in the silence of death around them.  
The castle is lifeless, too, she merely glances around the main court and leaves in a hurry, changing her mind very fast; Jaime shakes his head, sometimes she’s young and impulsive, an obstinate woman who makes her choices, a charming little lady.  
If she knew he calls her lady in his mind she’d be able to stitch Needle in his chest.  
She’s beautiful in her rage and he compares Myrcella and Arya, it would have been easier to be a father to Arya than to his estranged daughter; they could speak about knights an weapons and spend a lot of time in the training yard.  
But Arya is not Myrcella, never will be, Ned Stark’s seed sired her and pure northern blood runs in her veins.  
So he’s not a father for Arya, not an enemy, he is her shield, her companion, her temporary ally; so many things and at the same time he’s not important at all.  
And this is not what he wants to be, he likes her, her singularity hits a cord deep inside him and it’s wrong and it seems right and now his nights are often restless because of her.  
Her hands on his hair were soft and he misses a human touch after Myrcella’s embrace, the joy to share a connection with another human being.  
Gendry’s face becomes harder to remember the more they approach North; is he alive, or succumbed to the plague? How will she traces him back? An humble blacksmith, between the hundreds of bodies suffering and dying, he’ll be buried in a common grave or escaped somewhere safe.  
She does care about Gendry, not enough to answer yes to his marriage proposal, her blood listens to another kind of calls, her inner wolf cannot be easily tamed.  
Gendry is handsome and very male, but he is not the only man on earth, since he has noticed Jaime’s body, hair now a little longer, chin with traces of a growing golden beard, muscles flexing on his back, in good shape for his age, a life of privileges for him.  
Are they becoming the only survivors? He continues to tell her the North is safe, but he is unable to look into her eyes and swear they will find Winterfell in its usual glory.  
Arya want to live, her survival instincts the reason her goal to be faceless was doomed from the beginning. She’s got her own list, hiding it from the Masters, from Jaqen. 

\---

“Are we... the last of us?”  
Jamie looks at Arya from the other side of the fire.  
The evenings are the worst part, they are forced to stop for exhaustion, camping in the sunset light, days getting shorter.  
“I'm sure the plague is circumscribed.”  
“I can’t feel Bran anymore. Neither as a whisper. We’re travelling for days now and it's death everywhere.”  
“It can't spread so much, so fast.”  
“And if we are?”  
He knows what she means, their families lost, their former lives shattered, last hopes destroyed.  
It's impossible, he thinks, if they are still alive someone else must be so.  
“We can be infected and not showing, Jaime... maybe tomorrow or in a week.”  
It's a loop, an endless circle of questions and answers and Jamie is suddenly too tired, too worried, too sad to think about what the future will bring.  
“If we are we get the best days of our lives. We’re free.”  
He’s erased everything that’s not their travel, he’s forgotten his past and focused only on reaching Winterfell as fast as they can. What they’ll both find there can be too painful to elaborate.  
His eyes are huge and his features glows in the growing dusk and Arya believes they are suspended in a private time and space.  
She looks at Jaime, taking in all he is, all his body and all his relaxed posture allows her to grab And it's something warm that grows inside her.  
Arya stands, at first unsure, then Jaime takes a deep breath and his eyes follow every step she takes, until Arya stands above Jaime and he offers his good hand and she accepts it.  
The deal is sealed, in silence she kneels and their gazes meet, his arm pulls her closer, but his head stays still.  
He wants her and he won’t force her, never. Probably she’s still a maiden, one that kills and is not afraid; if he approaches her the wrong way, Needle is ready to cut his body open.  
His knighthood, her family, his sister belong to the past, not to the world that is rotting; to hell everything else, Jaime lets her soul follow his, all he hopes is her wanting him back.  
She longes for a touch, to feel what she saw many times before, in Braavos’ Taverns, in Winterfell stables, in Harrenhal back streets, men and women together and this can be her first and her last time with a man she was raised to despise but proved to be much more reliable she ever imagined.  
“Don't be afraid, if you want, we can.”  
His words unlock her inner wolf and she is bold in bringing her free hand around Jaime’s neck and press her lips against his, it’s all of him - skin, scent, taste - she craves now.  
His stump by impulse on her back and she is not repulsed and with her acceptance comes his soft whisper of relief that caress her mouth and he listens to his body, how different is this with a woman who is not his own half.  
He banishes Cersei from his mind and lets Arya take the lead, she is eager to explore his mouth, the zeal of the novice who is more theory than passion, but Jaime don't care, under her touch he rejoices greatly and presses her closer to him; he’s suddenly young again and free to live.  
Arya straddles his legs and her hands find his bare chest under the tunic, drawing patterns at the rhythm their mouths play together, then both bodies take control, grinding against each other.  
The fire warms one side only, Arya grabs his cloak, wraps it over both and they slide and turn clumsily on the hard ground, getting rid of clothes until it's only skin and Jaime's hands and mouth make her body sing like she imagined it would be.  
Her Septa, mother and all the other women were wrong, it is not submission to a husband, it’s not duty for her house: it’s the call of life that forces her blood to flow and her body to sing.  
When they are joined, it doesn’t hurt, just a little discomfort, she’s trained and toned and he’s gentle in his need.  
Slow at first, then Jaime becomes energy, desire, strength; a proper match for her, the rest of the world disappears, she matches his movements, arching her body when he lifts her up from the ground.  
Arya is surrounded by him and it is good to follow his pace, this first time, the difference between observing and experimenting what the act of love is. Soon it is too much, too powerful, like on a tower ready to jump and his face is so concentrated, she cannot stop herself.  
“Jaime, I..”  
“Let it go, let…”  
She tenses and falls and he's close too, a few thrusts and he pulls out just in time to spill on her thigh, then roll on his side, painting heavily, half trapped by the cloak, limbs forced intertwined.  
Arya understands the wet mess on her legs will be easy to clean, easier than the mess of getting rid of a bastard; they have no moon tea and cannot get it, the possibility to lay with a man has been out of Arya’s mind during their travel.  
She looks up at the sky above, then at Jaime, still breathing like after a run.  
“That was good.”  
“Was it your first, wasn't it?”  
No need to find traces of blood as a proof, it's not a wedding night, her wild life has tore already a thin piece of flesh.  
She is proud of what they have shared, she’s a full woman now.  
“Not my idea to wait until marriage if I found a skilled man.”  
Jaime smiles, he's been called many things before, this recognition and appreciation on the verge of death is exhilarating. 

\---

Breaking a meagre feast, the morning after, Jamie's eyes are afraid to meet hers.  
Every attempt at conversation is answered by monosyllables. After the passion, the heat of the moment, Arya is sure he’ll have a remorse, because before sleep conquered both Jaime confessed Cersei had been his one and only, until then.  
When Jaime stands to pack the horses, she grabs his wrist.  
“Look, about last night, I wanted it. I’m not ashamed.”  
“I should have not taken…”  
“My innocence? My virtue?”  
She stops him, laughing in earnest surprise.  
“I'm not my romantic sister. We are alone in the middle of nowhere, running away from a mortal disease. Who knows our fate?”  
He seems a little relieved by her speech.  
“Are you sure?”  
“My family won’t force you to marry me because I’ll never marry if not by my own choice.”  
A pause. “Yours, maybe. It would be a different matter”  
His resigned smile, a confirmation: how many times in Harrenhal Tywin lamented Jaime was stuck in the kingsguard and refused his inheritance?  
“My father would be glad I bedded a woman not blood related.”  
His parents were first cousins, once he heard Qyburn talking about the complications of inbreeding with Varys, referring to Tyrion; Joffrey was doomed from the beginning, Tommen is too soft to rule.  
“Promise me you won’t tell him about tonight.” Arya is concerned, Tywin is powerful and he could find a way to force them into an alliance.  
“I swear on Tommen’s head. My father would put us together in a heartbeat. The greatest marriage the Rock ever saw.”  
She makes a face, glad he’s laughing, but there’s not only the old lion into the game.  
“Are you afraid of your sister’s jealousy?”  
“She’s betrayed me, all the more since I lost my hand.”  
He’s unsure how to behave with Arya, he supposes he’ll have to follow her lead; her strong personality is more similar to Cersei’s than every other woman his father tried to find for him.  
Arya is free and careless and she’s the kind of woman that can hurt Jaime again and at the same time he can protect and help her; in the most hidden part of his brain there is a chance to have something truer for himself.  
“And I am glad you spilled out. Like you believe in a future.”  
That has been a conscious choice, he admits, he clings to a hope he is afraid to voice out, that snow and cold will save them, so he has taken great care she's not with child when they will arrive in Winterfell.


	9. Now pray for yourself and that you may not fall

Aria’s filly surpasses Jaime’s horse and he is glad she's pushing the horse toward the main road, better stay in the open than be lead into the woods with the risk of traps already set. Getting captured again is one of his greatest fears and they are chased by a group of riders, he’s sure they aren’t soldiers, nor armours, no banners.  
Jaime’s horse is slow, two men flank and hit him hard on his back; the last thing Jaime remembers before falling on the ground is Arya’s voice shouting his name.  
For how long he remains unconscious, he tries to guess looking at the sun, he estimates it is late afternoon, he's alone, the men, the horses, the confusion all gone.  
Only traces of hoofs in a muddy patch of soil and broken branches in a nearby bush; his horse is drinking water from a creek and Jaime calls the animal; his body hurts like hell for the fall and his mind is registering Arya is missing, the captors have a couple of hours on him. The notion there are other survivors is lessened by Arya’s disappearance. 

Arya’s arms are tied to a pole inside a hut, it is quite dark, she can spot three people inside, covered by furs. She cannot get their sex easily, they are handling some threads on a rudimentary loom so she believes they are woman and she hears an infant wail.  
The child is soon feed on a breast that appears between lawyers of the clothes and the women look at Arya who don’t understand well their language.  
One of the chasers jumped on her horse, took the reins and Arya’s arms in a powerful grip, the others shouted when she was unable to escape.  
Where is she? Where is Jaime? Is he alive?  
The plague belongs to another time, free folks like those people have a few contacts with the rest of the world, they are strangely too South or are she and Jaime are closer to the North she recollects.  
Voices from outside and a woman enters with some food, freeing one of Arya’s hands; the smell is good and Arya is hungry, she eats, not knowing for how long she will be kept there. 

Jaime needs to think and think very fast, before the traces disappear.  
Are those people contagious? He really hopes not, wild tribes are known to have few contacts with strangers and prefers to remain in their cold and inhospitable lands, they are shepherds and hunters and seldom selling items in markets in exchange for goods they cannot produce.  
Brienne was friendly with one of these man, red of hair and taller than Jaime, a man whose laugh and spirited eyes were sometimes terrifying.  
And Jaime tries to remember what he told him once about their social customs and the way they deal with enemies and hostages.  
They don’t care how rich or noble the preys are, they search for strong and healthy people to join their tribes, especially young women and little children.  
Deformed people, cripples and other kind of infirmity are avoided and so he understands why he has been left on the ground; they wanted Arya, probably to give her to one of the men as a mate.  
They aren’t going to kill her, if only in her pride, but it is not a destiny Catelyn Stark wanted for her daughter, nor the one Jaime hopes for Arya and now the mere idea she’s forced to lie under another man leaves Jaime with a bad taste in his mouth.  
To be parted from her, not to complete their journey and arrive alone in the North, having to face the Starks with another failure to protect the girls, is too much.  
And never having her petite body close to his, breathing her and observing the way she sleeps; is he falling for her, more than he wished or he feared?  
Jaime has to act and a one handed man cannot alone win over a tribe of tall and brave fighters, Tyrion would make a good plan, he lacks his brother’s talent in scheming and plotting and he is afraid to risk Arya’s life.

Cersei has been a master of lies all her life, keeping everything secret, for once Jaime will tell the truth.  
He approaches the village carefully, His stump up in the air to show he is harmless and the closer he gets the smaller the huts appear to be.  
Probably temporarily, just for a few moons or so, once the tribe ends resources the local forest offers.  
A bunch of children reaches him first, looking at his big horse; he looks around, no signs of Arya; when he is closer to the huts a tall man block his path and Jamie decides to dismount.  
Loosing his higher position will reduce further his threat.  
The man says something, Jaime understands enough of the man’s language for a short conversation; it is better to be open with those free folks, like Brienne’s tales about the people she met during her years travelling around.  
“Who are you?”  
“My name is Jamie. I am travelling with a woman.”  
“Our scouts saw you. On the plain.”  
More people gather around the chief; Jaime evaluates the size of his opponents.  
The man speaks with a younger version of himself who leads Arya out of a hut  
She is ready to protest, Jamie lifts a hand, blinks and she understands: he's leading the game this time.  
The prize - the North - is too important to risk, if he has got a plan she hopes he knows what he's doing.  
“I want her back.”  
“She will be Romul’s woman. My nephew.”  
The chief points at the man who is holding Arya, she tests his grasp, wanting to fight, but it is useless they will be overpowered by the large number.  
“He can’t take a woman who belongs to another man.”  
“Who are you?”  
“I am her husband and I will not give her up.”  
The chief looks at Jamie, at Arya and nods.  
“A fight for her. Bare hands. Romol and you.”  
He knows the way some tribes deal with conflicts, a trial by combat is just a more civilized and complex ritual of solving problems.  
Arya’s eyes widen in terror, Romol is huge, probably twenty years younger than Jaime and half a head taller, with two large hands that can grip Jaime’s neck in a deadly grasp.  
He is going to risk his life for her, who wanted to kill half his family, because he has made a promise to her mother and shared her bedroll every night since they mated.  
Her mind sprints for an idea, a solution to avoid the duel; do they know what the disease she and Jaime are running from is? Will they believe her if she tells?  
She has got no proofs and looking around they show no signs.  
Something else, something more persuasive, because she don't understand their language like Jaime does so she needs to pass trough him anyway.  
When a men would refuse a woman?  
They do not care if she loves another man or is she has been bedded already - maidenhead is not a virtue for wild tribes - but a man wants to be sure his children are his own and so…  
“I am with child!”  
She shouts, so Jamie will hear her voice in the confusion of the crowd around him.  
He stares at her, unbelieving: he knows well it cannot be, too soon the timing, to careful his approach making love to her, but for a brief second he thinks how it would be to have a child with her, one that can be his for the world to see, one brave and strong like Arya and there is surprise and admiration for her clever mind.  
The chief wants an explanation and Jamie moves closer to Arya and believing her lie places a hand on her belly and reveals the fake secret.  
An old man approaches the chief, they talk in a low voice, pointing at Arya than at Jamie's horse; the old man goes to Romul and the chief speaks.  
“Romul and my family accept your horse for your woman.”  
It's a fair trade, Jamie thinks, a draught horse is worth it's weight in gold.  
“We have to travel a lot, I pay for another horse.”  
Deal signed, Jamie buy a young and faster horse, a brown and white gelding.  
He wants to leave soon, the women are eyeing Arya, jiggling, touching her belly and he's afraid a midwife of a medicine man could uncover their bluff.  
Arya plays the part well, smiling and being quiet, but her eyes follow Jamie while he's switching the saddle and she bites nervously her lower lip, drawing blood, urging him to be quick.  
They speak only when they are out of sight from the tribe.  
“Clever move, Stark.”  
“Desperate. I wasn't going to be stuck with an husband so close to Winterfell.”  
“Better be stuck with me than with Romul?”  
“Your Lannister pride is showing up again.”  
He laughs, because she is smiling and she’s safe, for a moment he forgets everything else.  
“I'm simply gland and relieved to have you back.”  
“Really?”  
She casts a suspicious glance at him, sometimes he’s hard to decipher, he laughs when he could cry.  
“Really. I'm not going to lose easily the second woman I ever had.”  
She is proud of his declaration, it is evident in her stance on her horse; if they survive, a future with him maybe will take form, for now more urgent problems matter.  
“They seemed all healthy for what I saw.”  
Jamie agrees, there is hope, the free folks self isolation is a protection.  
If they get there in time, Winterfell could create a belt around the North, alert the other kingdoms about the disease, defend its people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can comment, please...it helps us writers to write more.


	10. There's a kingdom of love waiting to be reclamed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, life and work are crazy this month and my muse is forcing me to start another fiction (the 4th WIP), but this one is quite complete and I hope you'll enjoy ch. 10.

Arya smells the snow, it is the different light, the frost on the trees, the sounds of Wolves, the cracking of thin Ice on the surfaces of brooks and pounds.  
Jaime hates the cold, twice his life crossed the northern border and he left without honour first and a hand second.  
When Arya sees the ruined inn near the old forge, meaning Winterfell is a day far, her impulse is to spur her filly until she's inside the walls like into her mother's embrace. Her past attempts in following Jaqen’s and the Masters instructions are fading away the more she is closer home, she feels all her memories returning in slow wades.  
Jaime forbids her to reach the outer walls, carefulness is needed, from the free folks they gathered voices Winterfell was in the wrong hands, then a harsh battle with uncertain results, plus Jaime adds to those info bits and pieces of another history, Boltons’ possession, Sansa escaping from them, from Baelish, from the Lannisters too, when Jaime explained Arya her sister’s marriage to his brother.  
“We need to be sure your family or your lords rule there now.”  
Arya bents on her saddle toward home, he's right she hates to admit it, but Jamie is older, this time wiser,  
His face shows deep lines, his beard has traces of white, but last night he has pleasured her thrice, using all his experience to lead her to new discoveries.  
In bed and military strategy, she follows him.  
“So what do you suggest?”  
“We’ll keep ourselves at close distance, observing Winterfell with attention from a safe spot.”  
There’s a slope above the hot springs, it’s a good point of wiew. The trees are thick and they froze in the night.”  
A group of soldiers are heard across a field, they dismount and hide inside, Arya cannot spot their banners; she's glad some people are alive ion the North and sad for the uncertain fate of her family.  
Jaime tries to cheer her up telling stories about him and Tyrion when they were young, she listens half hearted, thinking about her own siblings; she would prefer silence but Jaime Lannister loves his own voice a lot, it’s a way not to think he has developed durnign the years, when sad memories become too many.  
“Did your brother love you unconditionally? Always?”  
“ I think so and I did awful things in my life, of which he was aware.”  
“I am afraid of their reactions if they knew...”  
“Know what?”  
Arya bites her lip, lifts her head to the sky and tells Jaime about her time as an acolyte into the house of black and white; the harsh training, Jaqen, the waif, her refusal to forget her true identity, the decision to leave.  
“That's where I learned to kill.”  
He is surprised, open mouthed, an expression of incredulity but after her revelation Arya’s skills, her ruthlessness, her killing ability become clear, logical.  
He has laid with a trained assassin, someone who could slice his throat silently, stick a dagger into his heart without remorse.  
All pieces melt, Arya’s Vengeance, her courage, the strong disallowance of social rules; he should be repulsed by a female killer, a woman so opposite from Cersei, instead he is all the more attracted to her.  
And the knot inside his stomach hurts, his guilt is getting bigger, she talked about her family and his role in the war between Starks and Lannsters forces Jaime to admit he cant continue with Arya if he isn’t hones about what happened to bran stark.  
His choice to follow Arya in her journey didn’t foresee to get involved with her on a very personal level.  
She can slap, hit, wound him and he will accept it as a right punishment, though he does hope she won't kill him. He starts, before changing his mind.  
“I’ve got a confession to make.”  
“It’s not necessary anymore.”  
Says a voice behind them.  
Arya lifts her head, the voice is Familiar and foreign at the same time.  
Bran appears on his wheelchair; a ghost, a vision, he holds a torch, he seems real.  
The forest stills around them, Jaime lets out a strangled cry when he recognizes Lord Stark.  
Bran lifts a pale bare hand, , Arya’s joy is consuming, he’s alive, one of her pack has survived.  
“Don’t come close, sister, tomorrow we’ll meet properly.”  
His voice comes from another world, she is kept on her spot by a strong force emanating from her brother, she wants him to tell about the family, to explain the risks for Winterfell. .  
“There is a plague, Bran. Robb and Mother, you called me. I saw deserted towns and... I was afraid for you.”  
“I know, Winterfell and the Starks are safe. We got our home back. We are closing borders, waiting only for you to return with Ser Jaime.”  
Bran looks gazes with Jaime; they are back in time, up on a tower, revisiting what had to happen no matter how much now Jaime Lannister is ashamed and regretful of his actions.  
Bran’s appearance so soon will mean to loose Arya, something Jaime cannot bear now, he fears to be found guilty and sent away, back to the disease, to his old and vain life, to his sister whose misfits he now acknowledges.  
“I’m sorry, Lord Bran, I have to tell her. I’ve waited too long.”  
“I know and deep down she knows.”  
“What am I supposed to know?”  
Arya turns and sees Jamie's expression; it's strange, they are safe now and he is tormented  
Bran as the first person to meet in Winterfell is not what Jaime would have hoped or wished; the young man faces is calm and suave, there is no hate.  
Jaime lowers his head, he don’t want to meet her eyes, fearing repulsion, he takes a deep breath and exposes the truth.  
“Bran’s fall was not an accident, but my fault. He saw me and Cersei. Another of my sins.”  
She’s speechless, hands on Needle as immediate reaction, she understands so many things just with his few words, but it’s Bran who asks for her attention,  
“It had to be like that, Arya, he suffered for long and hard. Obstacles and death on his path for a superior purpose. Welcome to our home, Ser Jamie, your penance was long enough. Winterfell needs to be protected.”  
Her rage slowly fades, Bran’s soothing voice is a balm, but when her brother leaves with the promise of a new meeting in the morning, Arya needs to be away from Jaime, too, waking along old hunting paths her family used for decades.  
An evening of confessions for both and the Arya who Jaime was sure would kill the responsible for Bran’s fall is now unsure of what to do regarding the man who has saved her life and travelled for weeks with her. She returns when it is full dark and sits beside him against a tree, without a word; for Jaime, it is enough. 

Bran has instructed Arya to enter the godswood with Jaime at sunrise.  
It's her faith, her Gods, she wants to touch again the trunks with reverence, how different from the septs of his home land, wood against stone.  
Arya tells him to touch with his good hand the tree, skin and bark are alive and warm after so many tragedies and deaths they have witnessed in recent times. It’s a gesture of forgiveness, Jaime’s heart beats freely again.  
A figure appears from the bushes, a huge animal with grey fur and white menacing teeth; Jaime jumps back in fear.  
The beast snarls then sniffs the air, suddenly lowering on its front paws and nuzzles the head on Arya’s legs, who observes the wolf carefully.  
“Nymeria, it's me! I'm back!” Arya kneels and hugs her beloved an  
“She was waiting for you.”  
the thick fog around the hot springs opens and Bran is there, a girl with black hair pushes his wheelchair.  
“Enter the water, me and Meera wil collect your clothes. Clean yourselves. Our house must remain safe, we'll be back with clean clothes when you are done.”  
It's another imperative request, Bran Stark won’t be denied, he’s a ruler now.  
The vapours close behind Bran and Meera, Nymeria lies on her belly, Jamie waits for Area how to proceed, glad to be forgiven and forgotten.  
“Did you hear him? Undress yourself. The springs have healing powers, we’ll be purified.”  
She is soon naked and jumps into the hot water, Jaime follows with some hesitation, is really Bran gone or staring at them from somewhere into the woods? Nymeria walk to the other side.  
Area reads his uneasiness.  
“I don't think he is interested in your nakedness.”  
“He knows.. so many things.”  
“His wisdom is good for my family. Come here, unbraid my hair.”  
Jamie approaches Arya from behind and starts working on her scalp, pushing her head under the water, washing away mud and dirt.  
She is relaxed, leaning against him, floating, while Jaime massages her shoulders, looking at her body barely under the water surface.  
After a while she stands.  
“My turn.”  
She works fast, she wants him to be at his best to meet her family, she's not leading a traitor or an enemy inside her house, but a man whose role in her life will be defined soon.  
“Bran needs you for a reason.”  
“I will do what I promised your mother, keep you safe. Least it is a wow I’ve been able to kepp.”  
“There is your life in the South.”  
And your sister, she thinks, but she cannot be the first to raise that topic.  
“My worry is Tommen, if I could help him…”  
Jaime feels a detachment from his life in the capital, he doesn’t know if he can settle somewhere else, but he’s eager to try.  
Arya get closer, he's kneeled to be even, her hands slide along his shoulders and upper Arms, disappearing under the water.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Helping you.”  
She has noticed he is reacting to her presence; shifting closer, he’s hard.  
They are nearby the castle, Jamie's first impulse is to stand up and leave the springs, it’s her home, he’s a stranger, but her eyes are staring into his and her touch is gentle and firm at the same, so his lips find hers and the hot water simply fuel their passion.  
It is fast and frantic, the feeling to be safe, home, Arya’s legs around his waist and her back against the edge of the pool.  
A lone wolf howls to the sky when Arya comes and Jamie peaks inside her, then he leans his forehead on hers and closes his eyes while Arya’s hand draws patters on his back, a gesture of endearment she never did before.  
Back from their high, they return aware of the surrounding, of the contrast between hot water and chilly air, their connection slips and Jaime curses; area has a questioning look but before she can ask Bran is back, Meera holds a steaming cup she offers Arya, visibly naked into the water.  
“Drink it now.” Bran suggests. “It is not time yet for a child together, you two have a long way to go.”  
Area’s cheeks redden, not for the hot water.  
“I’m sorry, I was so caught up, I forgot….”  
Jaime tries to explain and Bran waves a hand, dismissing his words.  
“You did good laying together. It’s just too early. Wear your new clothes and follow me, the family is ready.” Meera offers clean tunics and breeches - soft and warm after a long time on the road – and comfortably boots.  
Area touches Jamie's elbow to hurry him up, his face is confused when he stares at Arya’ s calm one. To be discovered by Bran Stark making love to a woman for the second time is not something Jaime is proud of; this time he swears not to harm the young Stark again.  
“He knows about us!”  
“He’s not a greenseer for nothing!”  
“What did you drink?”  
“Moon tea. He knows your seed is strong.”  
Jaime blushes and Arya makes a face; silly men, silly egos. 

They make a strange procession, Bran and Meerra first, Nymeria beside Arya, Jaime last, confused and unsure of being entitled to follow; Bran explains he is sure Gendry is alive and the Lannisters in King Landign too; Arya believes his brother, Jaime wants to believe him.  
There’s an excitement in Arya she can’t control when she enters the main yard and spots Sansa on the stairs, coming down, Rickon behind her, threatening to fall for the rush.  
“You are alive!”  
Sansa cries, they hug Arya together, Sansa’s pale and thin, Rickon is grown up, both a head taller then her.  
Arya scans around, everything is like she left, but she feels different now in a way she cannot explain.  
Sans’a face changes, her lips are tied, she's noticed Jaime and the way Nymeria is quiet beside him.  
“You brought him here!”  
“He is needed Sansa.” Bran explains. The lady of Winterfell isn’t happy, but her respect for Bran’s wisdom quiets Sansa for the time being.  
Bran leads immediately Arya and Jamie to maester Tumon, the young nephew of the old trusted Tully’s maester; his dedication is strong, like his huge chain, the room is full of jars, small lamps and ampoules, many open books on tables and shelves.  
“I have prepared remedies, exchanged ravens with the citadel and I believe the cold can kill the disease. So we are lucky here.”  
Arya’s curious, she wants to learn more.  
“Where I trained there was a woman who prepared poisons. She said the concentration of a substance can change a medicine into a poison.”  
The maester nods, asking Arya if she had learned well how to prepare them.  
“I learned both to prepare and to use.”  
Jaime's surprised face is not lost on the maester.  
“I asked Lord Bran for your help, lady Arya, to make a remedy. He says that you are clever and skilled and i need also yours, Ser Jaime, in a different way.”  
Jaime nods, whatever to stop the disease killing innocent people, to help Arya and her family.  
“Some of your blood, Ser, you are a strong man and the loss will be lesser on you.”  
Jamie bows his head, Arya looks at him with satisfaction for having bring him there.


	11. I am the hunter of invisible game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following, it had been a hard month but I've completed this fiction as I promised.

The Starks meet for dinner, there is food, good ale, warm furs and a huge fire in the great hall; Bran, sat at Ned’s place, eats very little and dictates ravens to the bannermen around the borders and to Jon at the Wall, the safest place from the disease for now.  
Sansa uses her mother’s chair and wears Catelyn’s brooch, her mother’s death becomes painfully real for Arya, Winterfell is without its eldest, a whole generation of Starks has died.  
Rickon talks a lot with Arya, with Meera, with some guest lords, helpers in conquering their home back.  
Sansa casts glances at Jaime, sitting in silence at the end of the table with his back to the fire – his southern blood needs extra warmth - he’s immobile until Arya touches his shoulder.  
“My sister is shocked you are here.” She whispers in his ear.  
“Am I imposing to the Lady of Winterfell?”  
“There are four Starks in Winterfell now. But better I leave your room before dawn for now, she won’t approve or understands us.”  
“So there is an us?” Her words warm his heart, give him hope.  
“The plague is still raging, we need to stop it first, then we’ll see.”  
When it is time to retire for the night, Jaime is the first to leave, Arya stands with the intention to follow him and Sansa puts a hand on her arm to prevent her sister from going after the knight.  
“Where are you going?” Sansa drags Arya into a corner, Jaime sees them and stops; Lady Stark is visibly angry, her voice is strained.  
“He's a Lannister! You are a Stark! It’s enough a concession to let him stay here.”  
“He saved me and I helped him.”  
Her sister casts a glance at Jaime and Sansa’s jaw fells, there’s a silent conversation between Arya and her companion, it implies a shared intimacy; she’s never seen Arya so involved with a man before. A terrible possibility hits Sansa.  
“You slept with him?”  
Arya doedn’t blush in confirming Sansa’s fears.  
“Arya! The Queen’s lover and Joffrey’s father! I was forced to marry his brother. His family hurt ours so much. Do you know Bran… ”  
Arya clenches her fists, it is the worst part, when Sansa wants to apply to everyone her convictions and moral code, but she’s not Catelyn, Arya is free to live her life.  
“Sansa, I know and Bran forgave him. Jaime’s changed. I have been away for so long and I am not your little sister anymore. I have killed, I will kill again.”  
She's a warrior, never a Lady, never meant to be so and if it means drifting a wedge between herself and Sansa - not Bran or Rickon - so let it be: Arya Stark will never change her attitude to please someone else.  
Jaime has observed the exchange and closes the distance, asking Sansa permission to speak.  
“Lady Stark, my utmost respect for you and you house. And my complete devotion toward your sister, whom I can't imagine to be parted from.”  
His words are courteous but his eyes are green ice, he's got Arya fully and deeply and Arya's got him in a way Sansa’s tales of love and devotion barely match up.  
“So you aren’t going back? To her?”  
It’s Bran who answers the question, joining the trio.  
“Ser Jaime will leave with Arya when our maester will find a remedy. They’ll deliver it to the other houses, first to King Tommen. We’re not going to keep the cure a secret. There will be soon a huge menace at the Wall for all the living. A common purpose.” 

Maester Tumon draws thin rivulets of Jaime’s blood, pinching one of his veins and applying pressure on it.  
Arya observes with attention, it is the fourth time in the afternoon and Jaime’s arms have been used as a pincushion for two days.  
Arya has the task to add blood drops into various glass ampoules with different substances and verify if the blood’s colour would change: they have to use always the same vital fluid, Maester Tumon assures them both, apologizing for hurting Jaime.  
After staring at the ampoules for hours, Arya’s sight is crossed.  
“I don’t trust eyes my eyes anymore.”  
“Take a break, lady Arya. And you too, ser Jaime, have a walk or sit by the fire, but don’t eat or drink for now, only water.”  
The maester dictates what he can eat and drink, Jaime fears Tumon will control his sleeping habits, too, so he forces Arya to lock the door as soon as they enters his chamber; he doesn’t want people spying on them and for good measure Nymeria sleeps outside the entrance, ready to prevent intruders.  
Jaime is more than happy to escape needles, his arms hurts and he doesn’t feel up to spar with Rickon in the training yard; the young Stark has taken an admiration for the older knight and wants to learn from him; there are no fatherly figures around Winterfell anymore for the youngest wolf.  
Sansa disagrees, Bran doesn't interfere in their routine, Arya observes the progresses her bother stark makes; their interaction is refreshing for Arya, with Robb dead and Jon gone, she misses her brothers.  
To make Rickon happy, she takes Jaime’s place in front of him, a training sword in her left hand.  
“Today you have to settle for me.”  
“But you are a woman!” Rickon searches Jaime for a confirmation Arya cannot spar with him, the knight open his arms, feigning defeat.  
“Try me, little brother, you won’t be disappointed.”  
Jaime chuckles, he is leaning onto a huge barrel near the stables entrance, caressing Nymeria’s head; Arya stares at him, a half smile on her lips, a promise of a private revenge for later.  
Rickon has been disarmed three times and has obtained a yield only - Arya’s foot slips on a slice of ice covered by horseshit - when Tumon calls for Jaime again.  
On their way to the maester’s quarters they are joined by Bran, paler than usual, a deep wrinkle on his forehead; he pushes the chair alone with some efforts, he’s in a hurry.  
Area observes him, fearing bad news, so she is not surprised when Bran declares the disease hs crossed the narrow sea.  
There are new ampoules lined up and Jamie in silence offers his arms, closing his eyes to avoid the sight, used to the pain now.  
Tumon asks forgiveness for hurting him again  
“I don't care. Go on. I’ve seen worse.” Jamie answers.  
“I am sure losing your hand was very painful.”  
“I refused milk of the poppy when the master cut the rotten flesh.”  
Bran pushes the chair near Jamie looking into his eyes.  
“I heard that your cry of pain then. you lost your hand because of a war against us and now you can save us. Sansa is angry an enemy can become a saviour. Life is a circle, things can change and heal without us taking an active part on it.”

Hour after hour, Bran follows Arya in her work, the ravens he sent are not coming back, the other kingdoms could be death and desolation by now.  
It seems all Winterfell is concentrated in the master’s room: Sansa, who has refused to speak with Jamie whenever they paths crossed, is sat on a stool, fisting her hand in a silent attempt to make the blood react in the right way.  
An unreal silence, everyone is focused on area except Jaime who messages his abused arms with the hand and the stump.  
He whispers forgotten prayers to the sevens for a miracle so they can leave and save the rest of his family. The sunset is approaching and Bran is sleeping on his wheelchair, Sansa leaves for a while to give orders to the servants and the maester reads book after book searching for new suggestions.  
His original plan has been to arrive in Winterfell free from the disease and Jaime has tried not to deceive himself too much with visions of a life for him in the North with Arya. Too simple, too easy, his life has been such a mess he’ll need another one to solve the knots he has tied with his own hands, although Arya’s way of cutting with her Needle everything and every trouble is so fascinating he does want to stay in her life. 

Jaime gently massages Arya’s tensed neck with his good hand, she stretched her shoulders a little.  
“You are doing great.” He encourages her.  
“I am trying to keep concentrated.”  
“Am I disturbing you?”  
“No. Go on, it is good.”  
Jaime meets Sansa’s gaze and Lady Stark is still disapproving but with less intensity, he thinks; the idea to be a wedge between Arya and Sansa doesn’t appeal him a lot, he would prefer to stay or to leave Winterfell with Arya in good relationships with her surviving relatives. Those lost have gone forever and he cannot do anything to change the responsibility his family has regarding their fate.  
Arya stills, she points at an ampoule, reads the paper tag under it.  
A mix of dry roots and an old mushroom, the maester explains.  
“This one is lighter, five minutes ago it was full red.”  
“Are you sure?” Jaime cannot hide the hope in his voice.  
Tumon opens two jars, collects a big spoon of both ingredients and approaches Jamie with a knife.  
“It could be the last time, Ser.”  
The arm is already outstretched, Sansa and Bran move forward, this time it is Arya who caresses Jaime's shoulder for the final cut, rubbing circles on his tunic.  
It is deeper, more blood is needed, but after a few minutes of waiting the ampoule shows the same result.  
Tumon writes a fast raven to the citadel.  
“Let me work alone, your grace, please. I will call you later.”  
“Also in the middle of the night? My sister and sir Jaime need to rest in case of an incoming sudden travel.”  
Bran reassures his sister, he’ll do the vigil, the protector of Winterfell is glad for a solution found; he knows the defeat of the living is certain if a solution is not found, he and Sansa have spent long hours examining the situation. Sansa’s getting used to Bran’s visions, except those when he implies she will marry again if the living survives; she refuses to know the name of the man, but Bran declares her heirs could rule Winterfell one day, because Arya’s child is intended to be a healer.  
“I will be awake, Sansa. I don't sleep a lot now.”  
“I need to purify and filtrate it and prepare more before we can send it to the other kingdoms.”

The master dismisses everyone, Arya and Jaime returns to his room to tend to his arms, Arya rubs on the sore skin a balm after cleaning it with a soft wet rag.  
“We are ready to leave, aren't we, Jaime?”  
“When the maester orders me, I will leave. But if you want to remain with your family…”  
He has spent his time at Winterfell observing carefully the Stark pack, how happy they are to be alive and together, so Jaime asks himself if he is too selfish in hoping Arya will follow him again.  
“Don't be stupid. I am not letting you go South alone.”  
Beside dangers and thieves and various people who want the Kingslayer’s head, in King’s Landing he will reunite with his sister, assuming Cersei is still alive, a notion Arya refuses to dwell too much upon, also because he’s never discussed a lot about his twin since arriving home.  
“Cersei will always be my sister and I want to save her and our son. That's all. If you let me, I’d like to stay with you.”  
He speaks with his face hidden on her shoulder, he’s afraid to meet her eyes, to be rejected, denied; she’s not anticipated such a declaration, now she needs time to think.  
With a note of satisfaction for her work as a healer, Arya puts away the bucket and the dirty rags, then sits astride Jaime’s thighs; his good hand instinctively supports her lower back so she can be more comfortable.  
“And if I want to travel?”  
He knows she is younger than him, her paths are open to more possibilities than his own, if only for the age difference; having offered more than twenty years of his life to the Kingsguard Jaime hopes for something more significant.  
“I could protect you. A hand and a sword are all I have.”  
“Do I need protection?”  
Her mouth can't hide a smile.  
“No, little wolf, not at all. But a knight can be useful in many ways while being away.”  
She likes his presence, his witty remarks, she is used having Jamie around.  
Arya’s hands move from his shoulder to cup his face and keep it still, so she can lean forward and kiss him. His grip tightens and he stands up, Arya feels the room spin until her bottom touches the bed.  
The mattress is soft and warm after their intense weeks on the road, her back fells on the linens while Jamie's hand roams over her chest, covered by a thin tunic only, smoothing valleys and hills and feeling every ridge.  
Both breathing rate increase, Arya’s legs capture Jaime's hip, locking ankles behind him.  
She uses him as a leverage when he pulls off her garments and breast band to touch bare skin; it is a reverent exploration, for the very first time they have warmth and protection and no pressures.  
Arya wants to touch him but his sore arms are the only parts that she can reach easily so she hits his buttocks and he understands, moving closer so her hands can grab the hem of his shirt and reach skin underneath before freeing him.  
“Oh, Arya.” She likes when he’s completely at her mercy, it’s a game of control she’s learned to play fast.  
Her touch is ice and fire at the same time, he slowly lowers himself until their torsos are in full contact; the friction is exquisite, pelvis start to ground together, waves of desire run through both and Jamie grabs Arya’s waistband to peel off her breeches while she works on his own laces.  
Off their boots, off socks and smallclothes.  
They shift on the bed to lean against the pillows, facing each other  
Jamie laughs caressing her dark hair.  
“What is so funny?”  
“It is the first time I have you on a bed. We were too tired the previous nights to so something. It is.. strange.”  
She likes his soft voice.  
“Do you need the bare ground to get hard? It’s too cold to sleep outside.”  
His face turns serious and Jaime kisses her, full mouth and tongue, hard, demanding and soon she is on her back and Jamie positions between her spread legs; there is no need to verify her readiness, he enters her in a fluid motion.  
She is wet and warm and she admits her wantonness, needing his thrust one by one, riding her own waves of pleasure until she fells from her edge and stares at Jaime, eyes wide open, breathing with open mouth, painting and finally letting himself go.  
Later he rolls to be Arya’s cushion and she laces her palms flat on his chest.  
“I don’t want to go South alone.” Jaime confesses caressing her head. “I’d rather follow you.”

A week after Arya and Jaime start their journey early in the morning, the light of dawn casts shades of pink and yellow on the roofs, wet from melting snow.  
The Stark family is outside the stables where the horses are saddled; Bran’s holds Arya’s hand and offers her a Valyrian dagger. It’s sharp and light and dangerous, Arya admires the weapon, turns it while Jaime ties another sheat to her belt.  
“Where do you get it?”  
“From Jon, he wants you to have it. A messenger arrived from the Wall.”  
“Write Jon I’ll be back to thank him.”  
Sansa insists four soldiers with fast and strong horses and provision for the long journey will accompany the duo.  
Arya and Jaime have another horse each with medicines, clothes and food, they cannot risk to eat something poisonous; Nymeria will follow them for a while, until the woods thin and the weather gets hotter.  
At the Neck the escort would be replaced by Lannisters soldiers travelling from the capital by Tommen’s orders.  
His little boy is growing up, Jaime thinks, reading Tommen’s signature on the raven; telling Tommen about his paternity can be a danger for the young king’s sake, but Jaime now can be a better uncle, a better secret father and protect, eventually, the last of his children.  
For the rest, his messed up family will sure cause troubles, his father demanding again to accept the Rock, all the more when he discovers the relationship with Arya, Cersei trying to lure him again in her bed; Tyrion will probably be the only really happy to see him.  
This time Jaime has got Arya at his side, more than an ally, and he feels stronger and ready to face his future.

**Author's Note:**

> Bruce Springsteen's song about the apocalyptic world is the best I can imagine.....


End file.
